


Of Mornings and Warmth

by Sashay789



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Dadza, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, It will probably be abundantly clear that I don't really know how kids work lmao, Kid Fic, Mentioned Dave | Technoblade, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Tommy is like 3 or 4 I don't really know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sashay789/pseuds/Sashay789
Summary: Never a day not unique with his children, Phil relishes each moment they bring - each disruption to the standard cycle of days.(Or: Shameless Dadza and Kid!Tommy fluff to soothe the soul during these trying times <3)
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 363





	Of Mornings and Warmth

Phil, ever resourceful and independent, was used to daily routines. Not to say most people were not, it’s just that in comparison to the people in his town, he put more thought and effort into his. Not enough to become overtly fixated, but enough to be distinct – enough to keenly understand the pros and cons.  


He would wake up, stretch as he soaked up the sunlight and flexed his formidable wings, fix up a fulfilling breakfast, indulge in some light reading, sweep and clean his house’s well-kept surfaces, leave his humble abode for the necessary job that new day brought, tend to the farm animals and crops, assess his new projects, attend more meetings, eat his pre-prepared lunch on the dot, return home…  


So on and so forth, everything planned down to the minute. It was a not-so vicious cycle. In the back of his head, hidden by that bucket hat, he wonders if he was just trying to stave off something he didn’t have.  


When young, though he knew the importance of stability, he grew weary of the monotony. Living at home and doing housework or odd jobs was not the life (he thought) he wanted. He left his home – the comfort of safety, to challenge himself – to challenge life itself. To weather storms, to dance on the edge of starvation, to raise his blade against hordes of mobs, to truly Live in its purest form. He terraformed the land to suit his design, knew every trick in the book on relying oneself, travelled between worlds, fell a Dragon most powerful. He earned his fame and glory, the Winged Survivor.  


_(He’s a realistic person. Down to earth. Phil knew, should word get out of how long he had stayed alive in such harsh conditions, he would become legend. When he was hailed as one, it felt nice, but he still couldn’t scratch that itch which resided within for so long.)_   


The server he cultivated was grand, his builds magnificent. But he couldn’t stay forever. Duty to his people; his hometown, called. Routine, his mind whispered, neither kindly nor maliciously. He took it on the chin and continued to fly.  


It was easy to remember the day the cycle broke ( _wake up, stretch, eat, read, mine blocks, place them, fight mobs, rest, get more blocks, shape the world to your will-_ ) the day he found them.  


Two tiny, frail little boys. One stared at him with a weariness beyond his age, thinly veiled desperation shined through his dull eyes. The other nibbled on their lip, rushed a hand through his greasy, unkept hair. They shook and quaked, rattled by the biting frost of winter and the chilling fear of being turned away once more. The locals did not joke of his endless kindness and hospitality for no reason; the winged man felt no snake of hesitation coil around him. He accepted the abandoned youths as his own, and his tiny, lonely nest grew.  


_(They came with naught but the clothes on their back and the will of those easily discarded – easily forgotten. It took days to get their names, Wilbur and Technoblade, weeks for a smile, months for a hug, and more for a different last name. Distantly, he felt something click into place, something almost satisfying, and he dared not question it. His wings felt lighter, the sun ever brighter.)_   


It was only years later when the last addition to his routine had finally thrown the wrench in it once and for all, and the ever-present itch had finally vanished.  
  
  
The green-clad man wakes up, the sunlight just barely drifting into his room, mercifully avoiding his eyes. He didn’t need the extra reminder to get out of bed, for he’s long since abandoned the need for high pitched wails or rough pulls on his shirt to wake up. Handling his three children requires special amounts of attention and concentration, he’d rather entertain them and their antics when already wide awake.  


He slips out of bed, slipping into his trusty sandals and swathing himself in his traditional cloak and slinks out of his room. The hallway, shaded in twilight, has yet to be illuminated though Phil can easily make his way to the kitchen. He took it in, still twinkling and glistening from yesterday’s thorough cleaning when his boys made a mess around the house – he should really stop them from playing in mud, but they are as stubborn as their father, it seems.  


He puts 4 slices of bread in the toaster. He feels like toast today, though he can predict his eldest twins will similarly decide to be troublesome and request something that he’ll have to dedicate a smidge more time and effort. He chuckles lowly to himself, already at peace with such a scenario. As he retrieves the necessities for his simple breakfast, he turns his head out the window. Green meets green, the dew on the leaves and the gentle sway of the grass – a lazy day, Phil reckons. The sight is calming, a breath of fresh air, and for that he’s grateful.  


After all, his dear twins were kept up late at night ceaselessly working for their last-minute assignments - he doesn't expect them to get up anytime soon. It's a Saturday, after all, and who is he to deny them their beauty sleep? If he were not accustomed to this life, he would ache for some rest himself.  


He’s ripped out of his reverie, but not by the sudden ding of the toast heated to perfection, but by an ever-gentle tug on his sleeve.  


Turning on his heel and peering down, Phil comes to face his youngest boy, Tommy, clutching his frayed cow plushie and peering up at him with wide eyes. His own dart to the time, surely, he was not out of it for that long? No, he wasn’t. 6:49, the clock speaks. This was much, much too early for his child.  


“Hey, bubba,” he murmurs. “What’re you doing up so early? Don’t you need your shuteye?”  


The boy staggers forward, unable to shift his weight properly. Phil knows he can walk – he’s so, so proud, beyond words. But he quickly kneels down regardless. Now closer, he can see the faint crease framing his boys’ eyes, the way his small hands clench his toy just a bit tighter. The cute wobble of his lips. Oh boy, Phil tenses and readies up, he’s either going to cry or-  


Okay. Phil internally sighs in relief when he hears no ear-straining wailing, but rather a heart-wrenching whine. He might sigh on the inside, yet externally he coos on instinct, running a hand through his sons’ fluffy hair and picks him up.  


“Aw, it’s okay, bubba. Daddy’s got ya,” he gently rocks the boy, squishing him to his chest but mindful enough to make sure Henry isn’t trapped between the two. Typically, the boy will only become increasingly frenzied if his cow friend isn’t treated carefully, so Phil will have to wait til’ the boy weakens his grip and forgets about the toy, too focused on the comforting warmth his father brings.  


“Did something scare you?” he asks quietly.  


“Daddy…” the boy sighs. The tension in his body slowly fades as he reaches around Phil’s neck. Slowly, the cow is dropped. Quickly, he is caught and placed on the counter. Tommy will want him back, soon enough.  


Phil’s heart both relaxes and soars with fond joy. “Did you miss me, pal, was that it?” He presses his lips to a golden crown, smiling when his boy hums faintly. “I missed you too, bubba. Don’t tell the others, but…” he holds the boy away for a moment, to lean and whisper conspiratorially. “You give me the nicest cuddles, they’re too old to ask for Daddy’s hugs.” Not really, in Phil’s opinion, but they were going through their independent stage. One day they will seek his comfort, and he will always muster up the strength to pick his boys up and hide them from the world, his wings spread like a shadowy shield.  


Tommy giggles but holds out his arms once more. Apparently 3 seconds away from his Dad is three seconds too many. Phil goes back to clutching him, easily taking out the toast and preparing breakfast. Tommy sidles up closer to his ear, “I thin’ they’re dumb,” he sluggishly whispers.  


Phil gasps scandalously, dropping the butterknife and grasping his chest dramatically. “Naughty boy!” He says, pretending to not see his son’s unrepentant look. “You should be nicer to them.”  


His son giggles again, pulling back and poking his tongue at him. “No!”  


Phil smiles, his son’s happiness infectious. It seems he really did just want his dad. He jostles the boy, softly booping his tiny button nose and going back to the abandoned toast.  


Tommy goes back, nuzzling into his father’s neck. Phil, in return, chuckles softly. “My oh my, aren’t you a clingy one, eh?”  


“No m’not!” The boy whines indignantly, though his tightening grip doesn’t slide past Phil. “You are!”  


Phil laughs, shaking his frame and rocking his son further, a soothing motion. “Aight mate, don’t be a whinger now, yeah?” He admonishes tenderly, kissing the almost-chastised boy on the forehead. “You know what we say about whinging…?” He trails off, expectantly.  


“Tha’ it’s bad and I shouldn’ do it,” Tommy answers, now properly chastised, yet it doesn’t stop him from sighing in satisfaction once more.  


“Good boy,” Phil responds, ruffling the soft, golden hair, finishing the arduous task of spreading butter on toast whilst holding a needy child. Some say he fell from grace, to stoop to such lows, but Phil thinks mundane moments like these make him rise above the highest cloud in a starry sky.  


He carries his cargo over to the living room, settling down on the plush mauve couch and leaning back into the pillows, plopping his boy on his knees. “Ok, bud,” he exhales harshly, the weight of carrying Tommy now lifted. “You promise to be good and not make a mess?” He asks with a touch of dread, remembering the last time he gave him a slice of toast and didn’t supervise his eating. How can one so tiny, with something so simple, cause such a mess? A mystery for the ages, Phil wisely thinks.  


His boyish bug eyes dart up to meet his own, the pale blue still needing time to fully pigment. Oblivious to his dad’s apprehension, he nods vigorously, eager to fill his stomach.  


Phil sighs, handing him one of his slices and turning the telly on to something mindless and loud, wondering if he’ll need to make seconds or if the boy will burn through what little energy he has and fall back asleep. As much as the winged man adores this precious time alone, he doesn’t want to make it a habit of Tommy losing valuable sleep.  


Speaking of wings, he rustles them, trying to judge blindly which feathers are falling out and which aren’t. He can tell it's almost time to pluck them and it’s a tad bit painful, he _is_ grinding his wings against his couch after all, and the little one seems to notice the motion.  


“Daddy? Why’re you movin’ your wings like tha’?” Tommy asks, entranced by the sheen the feathers have from the TV’s light.  


“Oh, well,” Phil begins, mulling over how to explain it easily to his son. “Feathers grow a bit differently for birds. Not quite like our hair.”  


“They don't?” His son asks, reaching out to stroke his left wing, that he’s curling towards his son, playfully nudging him.  


“Nope. When hair lasts for too long, we just snip it down, yeah?” The boy nods, seeming to follow along. “Can’t do that for feathers. When they last for too long or get hurt, we gotta get rid of them. I’m shakin’ my wings to see which feathers I gotta get rid of.”  


Tommy perks up in alarm midway through, though he lets his father finish. “Hurt?!” He cries. “Are you hurt, daddy?!”  


Phil barks out a laugh, staring at his boy in thinly veiled shock. He recovers, “No, bubba, I’ve just been flying a lot, so they got old. Your old man is fine.” He laughs again, ruffling the blonde hair and tearing out a piece of toast to offer, which the boy gladly accepts.  


Soon enough, Tommy’s focus is captured by the flashing light of the telly, his movements slow, his lethargy obvious, and Phil is impressed by how long he’s lasted.  


For now, however, Phil realizes he’s thirsty. He lifts up the boy and sets him down on the couch, standing up himself to venture back into the kitchen. He only takes a couple steps before stopping, when he hears sounds of distress from his youngest. He turns, seeing Tommy reach for him once more.  


“Bubba, I’ll only be a minute,” He reasons, calmly. “To get a drink. Don’t you want some juice?”  


Yet Tommy, never one to be easily placated, is only distressed further when his dad doesn’t swoop him up. He leans up on the back of the couch, wobbling forward on the uneasy surface and reaching out further. Rapidly, his face reddens and scrunches up, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. Again. A very adorable pout.  


Phil walks back to his son, dragging a hand down the side of his face in exasperation. Phil is legendary. He has made dragon and wither alike kneel before him. He has suppressed violent waves of pillager hordes. He has braved the most deprave fortresses of the Nether. He shaped the End itself to fit the vision he concocted. He has survived against impossible odds. He…  


Cannot withstand the might of his youngest’s pleading cries. Funny, he thinks, that quivering lips and glossy eyes are far stronger than any blade he’s clashed with. He picks the boy up, coddling and shushing him, returning to retrieve the tea and juice he seeks as hiccups wrack his darling son’s frame. Though he offers the boy his savory drink, he only sips it a few, fleeting times before almost dropping it. Burying his face in his fathers’ neck, he feels warm, safe and full, letting out small noises of content.  


As Tommy dozes off, Phil hears doors opening and closing, groggy whispers and soft footsteps approaching. He decides to savour this private moment with his child just a bit longer.  


Each day is a new routine, and as he gazes out of the window to dawn’s edge, he cradles his own precious bundle of sunlight.


End file.
